In His Shoes
by Marston Chicklet
Summary: Severus never meant to get into the cult scene. Really, all he was after was a pretty pair of shoes. A look into the mind of a man who may not be as complex as we believe. Pure fluff.


A/N: Merry Christmas, Miss Lauren! To all the rest of you who stumbled across this, it isn't the result of a crack indulgence, but, rather, a conversation with a very dear friend of mine that resulted in a promise that I have been vigilant in keeping. (The amount of crack she was on at the time remains to be seen. The blood tests haven't come back yet.) Because I promised to have it posted for Christmas/Random Holiday of Your Choice, it has yet to be betaed, but once that is done a slightly different version will be posted on other archives. Hopefully it is mostly error-free!

_ In His Shoes_

Marston Chicklet/SilburyGrl

It had, as so many things do, started with a pair of shoes in a shop window. They were rather nice shoes—a gleaming black with an elongated toe and just enough of a heel to click importantly as one walked, yet still masculine enough to keep him from feeling like a ponce. From under the overhang, he had stood, silently longing to march into the shop to purchase them, even if it had left him several years in debt, but a rapid glance at his feet prevented him from doing so. It would save him the humiliation of being asked to leave.

_His _shoes were hideously scuffed and the soles had begun to peel off ages ago, but years of comparing his belongings to those of the richer Slytherins had granted him the ability to simply grimace and trudge on. It lent itself to a sort of oblivion regarding one's appearance. This pair, however, was unlike any that he had ever seen before—on or off of a Malfoy.

The walk home was unbearable. Not only was it pouring rain, but, suddenly conscious of his inferior footwear, it seemed as though every pebble he stepped on came through the soles and sent shooting pain up, through his legs and into his back. As it dragged on, he fancied that this torture had been happening for years without his noticing, leading to a slouching posture and various bodily pains. In fact, by this point in his life, his arches had probably collapsed almost entirely. The damage would be irreparable; the result, no doubt, would be a lifetime of discomfort and misery.

He had only himself to blame, really, he decided as he pushed the door open to his dilapidated one-room flat that overlooked Knockturn Alley. If only he had pushed for shoes as gifts, rather than new broom models for Christmas it might not have come to this.

———

The next morning found Severus sipping a cup of tea and scanning the classifieds of the Daily Prophet, searching for employment. The fact of the matter was, he had decided several hours earlier, that his current career stocking shelves for Flourish and Blott's wasn't going anywhere. Not only did his tendency to glower at the customers until they buggered off lose business, but it provided barely enough income to make rent, leaving hardly anything left for other necessities, such as milk for his tea and, loathe as he was to admit it, shoes.

The night had been sleepless, passed in violent tossing and tantalising half-dreams about walking over James sodding Potter in a new pair every week and earning interviews and centrefolds within the pages of Witch Weekly—they would, naturally, feature his lower half because even he recognised that no woman would be overjoyed at the prospect of being forced to examine his smirking face. Moments came where he was worried that he had exaggerated the beauty of the shoes in his mind, but no—he couldn't have. He had never felt this way about _anything_ before—barring that unfortunate and temporary crush on Narcissa Black in his first year that had ended the day he walked in on her and Lucius Malfoy having loud and raucous sex in the common room. At that stage in his life, girls had still been diseased and horrid beings; he still cursed the fact that he hadn't been older and more able to take advantage of the situation.

His eyes paused on an advertisement that looked promising before he realised that it was, in fact, for a beauty salon. Biting his lip, he decided, a touch self-deprecatingly, that it would be best to leave the eyebrow wax for _after _he had the shoes. Shame, really, since the advertised pay was well above his current wage.

He continued scrolling, twisting his fingers through scraggly pieces of hair in frustration and ignoring the fact that – as his mother _so _enjoyed pointing out – that it was only making it more greasy. Finally, just as he was about to give up and resign himself to peeling the classifieds of magazines that he couldn't exactly afford, something caught his eye.

_Looking for a change of pace? Finding that bottom-line Ministry positions simply aren't for you? Interested in exciting, high-paid employment with free health benefits? Why not send your résumé into our office today!_

There was an address below for Riddle & Associates, accompanied by a campy photograph of two well-dressed wizards wearing odd hats smirking and linking arms. Intrigued, Severus sat up a bit straighter and copied down the information onto a scrap of paper. Now all he had to do was find the address.

And possibly dress up his rather shoddy résumé.

———

The exterior of Riddle & Associates loomed threateningly above him, the rain running off of the awning and onto the walkway in front of his feet. He shifted his grasp on the umbrella to make sure that the shoes he had bought for the occasion weren't ruined—while they weren't _the _shoes, they were still rather nice and his pocket didn't feel quite up to replacing them.

Yet.

His other hand clutched his résumé, which he had painstakingly spent the day before copying down onto the finest parchment that he could nick from Flourish and Blott's without them noticing—in spite of his hopes for a comfortably large paycheque, he didn't want to be sacked until anything was final—and silently hoped that the reality would be as promising as the three-sentence advertisement in the corner of the paper.

Perfectly aware that he was grasping at straws, he sucked in a breath of air and pushed through the doors.

He was greeted by the sight of a young witch with dark hair that was pulled back into a sleek bun and dark blue robes, who smiled politely at him. Before he could so much as open his mouth, she had begun to speak in a voice as polished as her appearance.

"You're here about the advertised position, I presume."

He licked his lips, suddenly nervous, and nodded. "I've brought my résumé with me."

"Lovely," she replied, shuffling through a stack of papers. "So many come thinking that they can simply waltz in without any paperwork, but here we accept only the best wizards and witches into our ranks."

"Of course," he agreed, subtly attempting to straighten his robes.

"I have an application form here, if you would like to fill it out."

He accepted the proffered paper and pen and leaned over her desk as he scratched in the required information.

———

Lucius Malfoy eyed the stack of papers with distaste, before glancing up at his father. "And you want me to do _what_, precisely, with these?"

"Our Lord wishes you to sort them."

"_Sort _them? What for?"

As so frequently happened, his father appeared to be bent on ruining his life yet again. Not only did he have a lunch date with his fiancée, but an old connection from his Hogwarts days had recently introduced him to the concept of 'highlights' for one's hair and, intrigued, he had made himself an appointment. This pile, however, threatened to destroy all that and more.

"But what," he asked with a distinct whine in his voice, "are they _for_?"

"Job applications," Marcus replied brusquely, tapping his jewelled cane with impatience. "Of course, given our family's heritage you were permitted to bypass the process entirely, but there are innumerable minions simply waiting to be converted to our cause."

"And I have to read about all of them? That's hardly fair."

Truth be told, he was beginning to feel more than a little sick of the cause. It had initially seemed to be a good way to pass the time between his other social events, but it was increasingly encroaching on them. Bloody annoying, really.

"All _you _have to do is make sure that the Mudbloods get their own pile," his father snapped, turning on his heel. "You're hardly senior enough to be trusted to make executive decisions."

Lucius pulled a face at the retreating back and sighed heavily at the pile before him before Summoning the box of Floo Powder towards him. He'd have to bribe Rosier again; this whole Death Eater business was really starting to be a bit of an annoying drain on his pocket money.

———

_Dear Mr Snape,_

_On behalf of Riddle and Associates, I am pleased to be able to offer you an interview on Monday, January 8th at ten o'clock in the morning. Please arrive promptly at our office on Diagon Alley at this time. _

_Sincerely,_

_Marcus Malfoy_

_——— _

Severus straightened the front of his robes—they were new and therefore still properly black, rather than faded from washing—and brushed pieces of hair out of his eyes. This time around, it wasn't raining, although the sky seemed to be making dark threats in that general direction.

To be honest, he felt somewhat out-of-place, dressed as he was in entirely new, almost-expensive clothing. It wasn't an experience to which he was accustomed and he was afraid that it was showing.

He had also caved and bought the shoes, which, in themselves, cost more than what he paid for rent in a month. This had been intended to bolster his confidence, but it seemed to be failing.

Being armed with the knowledge that, underneath it all, he was in fact still wearing the same scratchy grey underpants certainly wasn't helping the situation. Unfortunately, his bank balance had betrayed him before that situation could be remedied.

Sucking in a deep breath, he tucked his folded umbrella under his left arm and stepped forward. The same witch was sitting in the desk, with the same smile, giving him cause to wonder if she was actually human.

"Mr Snape," she greeted him, the smile never slipping from her face.

He wasn't used to being addressed so formally, so it took a moment before he realised that she was talking to him. "Er, yes. That's me… I mean, hello."

As her lips tightened into something that resembled something closer to a smirk than a welcoming grin, she said, "Mr Malfoy will be out in a moment. Kindly have a seat."

Mutely, he obeyed, sinking into one of the overly plush chairs that lined the walls. He managed to remain still for a couple of minutes, but calmness quickly dissolved into nervous fidgeting. He flipped through a few pages of one of the magazines that was littering the nearby coffee table, threw it back, checked the time… Still, nothing.

He wondered if the person who was interviewing him knew that paying this month's rent depended on this job.

Another five minutes.

They must, the bastards. The torment was positively agonising.

The second had inched its way around the clock another time. It was as though each second was another butterfly being added to his stomach's ever-growing collection.

There was a banging from somewhere upstairs, making him sit up straighter. The sounds of arguing reached his ears and he craned his neck slightly in order to hear better.

"I don't see why _I _have to do it. Rosier needs the money, anyway."

The voice carried with it a distinct, yet implacable, whine and the one that responded to it was quiet enough for the words to be incomprehensible.

"Whatever happened to charity?"

"My dear boy, there is a time and place for that sort of thing. _This_ is not it."

The two came around the corner, and Severus gave himself a bit of a mental kick for not recognising Lucius Malfoy's voice. It had only haunted and bossed him about for his entire first year at Hogwarts. The conversation halted at the sight of him, and the older man, who Severus could only suppose was Lucius's father, Marcus Malfoy.

He half-leapt to his feet—a tiny voice was reminding him repeatedly that making rent depended almost entirely on his ability to manoeuvre this situation—and the three men stared blankly at one another for a moment.

"You are Severus Snape, I presume," Marcus Malfoy and Severus nodded.

"Father, Severus and I went to school together—I made sure that his application was given to you immediately for consideration."

Suddenly the younger Malfoy was all charm and smiling sincerity, making Severus snap to attention.

"Indeed?"

"Yes—he was something of a protégé to me in his first year there. Wouldn't you agree, Snapey?"

He bristled. People didn't call him Snapey. An aunt had tried something similar when he was six or seven, and had come to a bad end involving little bits and pieces stuck to a tree. It had been an accident, of course, but seeing as it had been his father's sister, his mother hadn't particularly minded. His father, on the other hand, had.

Instead of reacting to the name, however, he merely replied, "Quite."

"Severus was really rather adept at hexes of all sorts," Lucius continued. "I assume that has carried through?"

Unless he was very much mistaken, the other man seemed to be helping him out. While he wasn't foolish enough to believe that it was due to a genuine desire to be useful, he was grateful for it nonetheless.

Severus nodded. "Of course."

"His mother was also a Prince," Lucius added slyly, watching as his father's face turned from bewilderment at this sudden assault of eagerness, to surprise.

"Is this true, boy?"

Severus gulped and replied, "Yes, sir."

Marcus's face relaxed into a smile—it was a thoroughly unfriendly smile, that reminded him of a hungry crocodile, but it was a smile none the less—and held out a hand to shake. "Mr Snape, welcome to Riddle and Associates."

That_ was the interview?_

The next few minutes rushed past him with a dizzying force, which, if he hadn't been wearing such sound shoes, might have knocked him over. He found himself being led up a flight of stairs, while Marcus explained the portraits on the wall and how they related to the company. It was at this point that Severus realised he that he still didn't know what sort of firm Riddle and Associates actually was and was about to open his mouth to ask when they paused at the portrait of a young, good-looking man.

"And this is your new master, Lord Voldemort. The portrait was just shipped in this morning," he announced, looking as though he expected some sort of awed gasp. The two younger men simply looked at it.

"It really isn't an accurate rendition of him, Father," Lucius said finally. "It's missing the glowing red—"

Marcus hit him across the side with his cane, hissing, "Show respect."

"Yes, boy, listen to your father," the portrait sneered in a surprisingly nasal voice.

"Sorry, sir."

And, suddenly, all eyes were on him. Severus shifted uncomfortably, and pretended to study the portrait with interest while coming up with something to say. A moment passed without inspiration and his heart began to race. "Very intimidating," he remarked, at long last, hardly daring to breathe.

His response, however, seemed to please both Marcus Malfoy and the portrait—he was given an approving nod and led onward. A few portrait examinations later and they were standing outside a large wooden door—Severus still wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. Marcus smiled politely and gestured towards it.

"Lucius, you will be responsible for the boy's training. I have some business to attend to with the Minister of Magic."

Offering Severus a quick handshake, he spun on his heel and could be heard tapping down the stairs. His son waited only long enough for him to be out of earshot before emitting a pained sigh and raising an eyebrow at Severus.

"Hopefully you'll be better than Rosier," he remarked with a slight sneer. "Not that he was ever a _proper _employee, but he couldn't quite get it through his skull that the Mudbloods went in the stack of undesirables."

———

As it turned out, Severus was much better than Rosier. So much so, in fact, that he was granted a raise within the month and Lucius' sneers gradually began to carry a hint of grudging approval, although this could very well have more to do with his shoes than his sorting abilities.

Two weeks since his employment at Riddle and Associates, and the dreamed-of shoe closet was already becoming a reality. He wished that he could say it was because of the excess money from his earnings, but, unfortunately, that would be a lie. In fact, his current point of three pairs of shoes and another set of robes was beginning to make him doubt his ability to make rent this month. And next month. Possibly the one after that as well.

After buying _the _shoes and promptly landing his new job, he had felt that it deserved a reward of some sort. That reward just so happened to be somewhat pedal in nature. Shoes, of course, desired proper attire to accent them, and said proper attire often required another pair of shoes. It was a vicious cycle; it was an increasing threat to his bank account.

Of course, he couldn't place all of the blame on the excess number of shoe stores on Diagon Alley: Lucius' lunch breaks were also taking their toll. At least twice daily—although it would sometimes reach as many as five—he would insist that they step out. It wouldn't do to overwork themselves, now, would it?

In the beginning, they would part ways, with a prearranged meeting time decided. Severus would use these gaps in his day to slink into Flourish and Blotts and browse their selection of advanced works—he was still working nights there, so his discount still applied—or window-shop. However, Lucius was increasingly inviting him to lunch, where he was welcomed, albeit tentatively, into the fold of the offspring of influential pureblood families.

Although most of them he had gone to school with, he had certainly never gained their notice unless some remarkably complex magic for some nefarious purpose or the other had been required. They seemed to find the entire situation as awkward as he, but Lucius' presence forced them to hide it. While this meant he was forced to feign manners and upbringing, which had never been one of his strengths, it also allowed him to observe at close quarters what separated him from them and contemplate how he might counteract that.

They anticipated a sulky, temperamental disposition; he gave them razor-edged wit. They expected him to grasp at any sort of recognition they might happen to toss his way; he, for the most part, remained coolly aloof. It took all of three days to distance himself from the Severus Snape they had known at Hogwarts so completely that they almost forgot they had been old acquaintances.

It was after one of these meetings, walking back to work, that Lucius stopped him at the turn onto Knockturn Alley and studied him for a moment.

"You are aware that Father isn't to know about these lunches."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a statement. It was a command.

Severus nodded. "Perfectly."

"And that the recommendation for promotion that I'm about to give you has absolutely nothing to do with your being accepted into the group, and everything to do with your _impressive _paper-sorting abilities and rather enviable taste in shoes."

He raised an eyebrow. He had been beginning to wonder if _anyone _appreciated the effort he put into selecting them. "Naturally."

Lucius clapped him on the shoulder. "Excellent. Shall we go for drinks, then?"

———

The promotion, as it turned out, resulted in being granted new robes, a matching albeit rather odd-looking mask, and an invitation to a dinner party at Malfoy Manor that he wasn't sure thrilled or terrified him. He liked Lucius as much as you could like a vain, snotty little prick, but he still hated social situations with every fibre of his being. Sometimes even more.

Not that he was complaining. The promotion also involved a hefty raise that not only enabled him to make rent, but to upgrade to a flat that wasn't located amongst the dregs of London society. And he bought himself a new pair of shoes to go with his uniform.

He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about these—he hadn't departed from the traditional black, switched to women's shoes, or gone to some other horribly drastic measure, but they had a buckle and, try as he might, he couldn't quite seem to justify that. To be fair, it was a subtle one in dull silver that blended nicely into the black leather against which it was set, but it still made him feel self-conscious. He had never been overly fond of change.

Still, the clicking beneath his feet as he climbed the excessive number of steps leading up to Malfoy Manor was authoritative enough to be pleasing and the sound soothed him slightly, briefly causing the butterflies that had cultivated in the pit of his stomach to disband. However, as much as the stairs appeared to be never ending, Severus did eventually reach the door and was forced to focus on something besides his feet. Before he could so much as compose himself, the door swung open, guided by an unseen force—his money was on a house elf—and he was stepping in, trying to keep his face neutral. It simply wouldn't do to have Lucius know how in awe he was of the lavishly decorated house.

Whatever sense of wonder he felt at the foyer was thoroughly eclipsed by the dining hall. Unlike the entrance, it was furnished simply, with a long ebony table and matching chairs. The paintings hanging from the wall in the few spaces where there were no windows had clearly been chosen by someone with an eye for that sort of thing—they avoided screaming of riches, while still politely imposing their finery on the observer. He had only been given a moment to examine the room, when he found himself being swept up in a mass of energy; Lucius was clapping him on the shoulder, introducing him to his fiancée, Narcissa, while Rookwood and Avery detailed the afternoon that he should have spent with them watching Quidditch. For brief flash, he was almost able to slip into the moment and feel as though this were the life he had always been living—of course new shoes and dinner parties had been regular occurrences throughout his childhood and who on earth would ever willingly rent a flat in Knockturn Alley—but he forced himself to keep his distance. He was only in this for the money, he had to remind himself. Money could buy him, if not happiness, then the things that led to it. The lot of them had been snobbish pricks for years at Hogwarts; they were only bothering with him because Lucius seemed to favour him.

Bearing this in mind, he turned his attention to the two blondes next to him and accepted the woman's proffered hand.

"Narcissa, this is Severus," Lucius announced.

"Yes, I know." She cut him off before he could say more with a smile. "We have met before."

Severus was trying desperately not to think of that traumatising day in first year when he had seen far more of both of them than he had ever wanted to—if he did, there would be no possible way to keep a straight face. He focused instead on her earring and forced himself to smile.

"I like your shoes," she said, addressing this comment to Severus.

For a moment, he was taken aback. His eyes were immediately drawn to the simple black shoes that she herself was wearing, with metallic heels that could probably cause serious damage to a moderately large hippogriff. It struck him that this comment was from a woman who probably had an entire room devoted to shoes—or, he conceded, if not a room, then a rather large closet.

It made him suddenly and incredibly grateful for the buckles.

"Thank you," he said. It was possibly the most sincere thing that he would utter all evening.

———

Dinner parties, as he was rapidly learning, were a rather dull affair. Vaguely, he wondered why he had been bothered to worry. So far, the most intimidating moment had been when he realised that there was a line of six or seven forks that he would have to pick from, but that had only been a minor crisis, rapidly solved when he realised that whatever poor manners he might display would be overshadowed by Crabbe, who was hardly bothering to use a fork at all.

His sole entertainment was Narcissa, whom Lucius who had disappeared and not returned, had left with him, apparently permanently, as he didn't seem to consider Severus so much a threat as he did a minion. Much to his surprise, he found himself quite liking her; she _was _a gossip, but at least she was a witty one. Not to mention that she could probably manoeuvre her way into dominating a small country with the amount she knew about people; within two hours, he knew the secrets of at least half of the people in the room and counting. The only person that she didn't say anything about was an odd-looking man at the end of the table who seemed vaguely familiar—he commented on him once, hoping that she might have some sort of sharp remark about his strangely hooded eyes or scaly skin that made Severus wonder if he had some sort of skin condition, but her mouth tightened shut and she shook her head, drawing his attention back to the couple across the table from them.

Her diversion was only temporary. For the remainder of the evening, he found his eyes wandering back up to the man at the head of the table who was seemingly engrossed in conversation with Lucius' father. As the night dragged on and more and more courses of food were brought out, he began to wonder if it would be possible to simply leave. He was tired and there was a stack of papers waiting to be sorted that he had decided to leave until morning. It wasn't as though Narcissa seemed to need anyone—she appeared perfectly content to continue talking to herself, if need be.

He was just about to offer his excuses and try to slip out, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"My father wants to speak with you," Lucius said with a faint grimace, although the expression seemed more to be directed at the fact that he was being forced to mention the man than it was due to any misgivings.

Inwardly, Severus blanched, but only inclined his head in agreement, pushing his chair back and beginning the walk to the head of the table.

_It was the forks, _he thought grimly. His confusion over the forks hadn't gone unnoticed and he was about to be dismissed.

_Sodding forks._

Much to his shock, Marcus greeted him jovially, waving the cane with the snakehead at him enthusiastically.

"Sheverush," he slurred, taking another sip of wine. "M'lord, this is the lad I've been telling you about."

With a degree of horror, Severus realised that the man was drunk. No, not drunk: completely and utterly pissed. The man he had been observing from his seat further down the table turned his hooded eyes onto him and with a jolt of surprise, Severus realised that they were red.

"Sheverush," he said delicately, in a voice that was almost disturbingly nasal, "how very pleased I am to meet you."

With a cringe, Severus realised that Marcus had probably been running round the room, telling the world that his name was "Sheverush" and that a great deal of his adult life would be spent correcting them.

"It's Severus," he corrected politely. "Snape." There was an awkward pause: the scaly man seemed to be expecting something. "My Lord," he added hastily, remembering Marcus' address.

"Well, Severus Snape," the man said, "you have come highly recommended. Marcus is extraordinarily pleased with your work and his son has spoken highly of your character. Is there any way that I could interest you in a private discussion regarding your future?"

It was spoken in the tone of voice that told Severus that it wasn't an invitation; it was a command. It seemed that his future had already been mapped out nicely for him. All he would have to do was smile and say yes.

He could only hope that the pay would be good.

———

That had been the beginning. Since then, twenty-three years had passed and, although that initial invitation into the outer portion of Lord Voldemort's inner circle hadn't resulted in much of a pay raise, he had managed, over the years, to accumulate enough wealth in shoes to fill a rather generously sized room. Of course, the fact that he had managed to survive two wars and the Hogwarts regime of Albus Dumbledore—he still couldn't decide whether he was more terrified of a good round of _Crucio _or the thought of another sherbet lemon—without so much setting foot in Azkaban was no small matter either.

The Azkaban bit was something he liked to remind Lucius about whenever he was being particularly irritating, which he happened to be doing right now.

"You know, Severus, you're practically a war hero. If you set your mind to it, you could have any girl in the room."

Severus cast an eye around the restaurant and glared across the table. "The war hero that killed Albus Dumbledore?" he snorted.

"You were willing to sacrifice your good name for the cause," Lucius smirked, patting his wife's hand. "Surely that must count for something."

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes—it was inevitable that, after years of teaching, he would have picked up the habit—and settled for a heavy sigh. Every time he was invited out to dinner with the Malfoys, he accepted with the knowledge that he would most likely come to regret it.

"Surely, Severus," Narcissa cajoled, "there must be someone who has caught your eye."

"I can say in no uncertain terms that, no, there has not," he said sharply. In fact, he had rather been hoping that following his release from all charges and the subsequent Order of Merlin, there might at least been some obliging blonde knocking at his door. The closest he had come had been Hermione Granger buying him a drink after his trial—she had been one of the less sceptical participants in the proceedings, presenting the majority of the evidence in his favour. Really, he had thought at the time, the least that she could have done was follow it up with a decent snog. It had been long enough since he'd had one.

Of course, nothing in the world would convince him to share those thoughts with the two people sitting across from him.

"I'm quite happy on my own, thank you very much," he said firmly, sawing aggressively into his steak in order to avoid eye contact. "Rest assured: if that changes, you will be the first to know."

———

And it was true. Severus was more than satisfied to continue on as he always had. True, it was occasionally lonely, but he had his books, his shoes, and was no longer a wanted man or a Hogwarts employee..

Fuck that: it was extremely lonely. Almost to the point where he missed having to listen to Albus' incessant chirruping, headache-inducing as it had been. The only explanation he could offer himself for this odd sense of nostalgia was that he was going soft in his old age.

It was a horrifying thought and not one that he liked to contemplate for extended periods of time.

So, rather than attempting to rectify the situation with human contact, he bought a kitten and named it Voldie, in spite of the fact that the Dark Lord had not been bright orange, cute, or fluffy to the best of his knowledge. The feline and he got on rather well; Voldie seemed to enjoy the shoe collection almost as much as he did, occasionally curling up in one of the old buckled shoes that he had worn to his first dinner party.

Of course, as he soon came to discover, social interaction with people other than the Malfoys could only be avoided for so long and, sometimes, said social interaction involved people of the female persuasion. And so Severus Snape eventually found himself in attendance of yet another abysmally dull Ministry banquet to which, by some minor oversight, Lucius and Narcissa had not been invited.

It was hell.

He was only half an hour into the bloody thing—which threatened to drag on for hours—and he was already developing a migraine the size of a small European country. The people that were holding him hostage at the table were primarily lower Ministry employees and their significant others; for the most part, all they seemed to be able to do was complain about their superiors and gaze, doe-like, into one another's eyes until Severus felt ill. He tried silently mocking them for a while, but even that eventually became fruitless, as they weren't sufficiently interesting for picking apart.

He was also fairly certain that convicts were fed far better food than what was currently being served and made a mental note to ask Lucius to ascertain this later.

So, because he was certain it was the only thing that would make the rest of the evening bearable, he began to drink. There was a bottle of wine that no one seemed to be touching, so he helped himself. It was a Sauvignon Blanc that he wasn't entirely sure paired with the formless lump that he had been served, but it was better than the alternative of sobriety. Once he had (quite generously) helped himself, the others at the table began to join in, keeping him from only consuming half the bottle on his own accord. Fortunately, to the rather friendly waiter who obligingly brought them a second bottle this didn't seem to be a concern. He managed to garner a fair portion of that one as well, making it through his sixth glass in total—he still wasn't feeling it—and, by some miracle, the main course. As he nibbled his way through dessert, however, a wave of giddiness overtook him as the world took on a pleasant haze. He thought that perhaps he ought to hold off for a bit and let his seventh glass sit at the edge of his plate as he squinted at the menu of dessert wines.

He was in the process of considering the tawny port listed when a vaguely familiar, slightly bossy voice interrupted his thoughts.

"The thing is, Ronald, that a new pair of shoes isn't a bit like buying a broom; the experience is quite incomparable. With a broom, you have to worry about all sorts of things: if your weight sits on it properly, if it's going to throw you off the second you're more than three feet above ground, how fast it's going to fly… With shoes, the only thing you've got to worry about is whether or not you can walk in them. Beyond that, there's a myriad of colours and shapes and choice. They aren't judging your ability to fly or move and you'll always be able to find a pair that fit, all they're judging is your sense of colour coordination…"

Severus found himself involuntarily turning to seek out the voice that was speaking words that might have come from his own mouth, had he been presented with the opportunity to say them. She was easy to spot, in the bright red stilettos that matched her scarlet robes, which were clinging to her form rather nicely; she was only a few feet away.

With a tinge of fascination, he realised that the young woman was Miss Granger and stood to approach her. On his first attempt, he only flopped back into his chair. It struck him that he might, in fact, be slightly drunk, but that seemed hardly an excuse not to approach her. The second attempt was successful and he managed to stagger over to where she was heatedly arguing with Ron Weasley. Their conversation was moving too quickly for him to properly follow—he was more concerned about the fact that the room seemed to be spinning and how he might go about asking it to kindly stay put—but still he tapped her on the arm, causing her to abruptly shut up.

And then, oh God, she was staring at him expectantly and he realised that she expected him to say something but his thoughts hadn't quite reached this point… An awkward silence followed, before he was struck by what seemed like divine inspiration.

"I like your shoes," he said, his words slurring slightly.

She stared at him blankly.

"Your shoes," he clarified, wondering why his words sounded so fuzzy, "are very nice."

"Thank you," she said finally.

It was at that precise moment that he realised that he was not slightly drunk—he was completely and utterly sloshed.

It must have showed, because Miss Granger excused herself and led him out the back, where he promptly vomited against the wall. Repeatedly.

"I didn't spend six months trying to save your sorry arse so that I could have you be sick all over me," she snapped in a voice that sounded sharp as glass.

He was aware of that and would make that perfectly clear to her, once the remainder of his dinner was expelled from his stomach. She watched him in silence until he could throw up no more-mercifully, all of it had missed his shoes—and he turned to look at her.

"There is no possible way that you can prove that wasn't food poisoning," he replied in a tone to rival hers.

She merely arched her brow and cast a cleansing charm. He had to give her points for thoroughness—even his breath was minty-fresh. "Just be grateful that none of it got on your shoes. I don't think that I could have fixed that."

She seemed to be looking at him oddly. While he was by no means an expert on the facial contortions of Hermione Granger and could put her bemused expression down to his drunken behaviour, something about it struck him as somewhat different than the scolding look that she had so often cast on Potter and Weasley. So engrossed was he in trying to decipher the meaning of this look that he didn't realise she was leaning forward to kiss him until her mouth had mashed into his. He jumped—not because it was unpleasant, but, rather, because of all the possible meanings her expression might have held, that had not been one that occurred to him—and she grasped him firmly by the shoulders, making sure that he didn't try to escape.

Not that he wanted to or anything.

In fact, his mind was already racing ahead to the follow-up; the thought of Hermione Granger attired in little more than red satin stilettos was certainly appealing and he hoped that she had no objections to wearing heels when not standing upright. Perhaps, he thought with a delicious shiver, she would even let him keep his shoes on throughout…

She pulled away before his mind could race forward to the many uses of the stiletto heel and looked up at him coyly. "Sorry," she apologised quickly. "It's just that I've been wanting to do that for about nine months now."

"Miss Granger," he said coolly, feeling remarkably clear-headed, "if you think that I any less than enjoyed that…"

As she leaned forward again, he smirked at the knowledge that he most likely wouldn't have a proper opportunity to finish that sentence until the early hours of the next morning.

A/N: Hopefully you were mildly entertained, if nothing else. I certainly was (but, then, there's no accounting for taste).


End file.
